


count my time in dog years

by arahir



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bad Humor, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, literally the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-16 04:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arahir/pseuds/arahir
Summary: The Blade of Marmora takes measures to protect their youngest recruit.Every eye in the room is on Keith, and the Blades are dead quiet and dead still for the first time in hours."Right? Guys?" Hunk shoots Keith a confused look, like he thinks Keith has a psychic connection with other Galra or something. He doesn't.Kolivan gives a helpless little sound. "He’seighteen? Eighteen—what?"Hunk quirks an eyebrow. "Years...? Oh, wait," he hits Lance's shoulder. "What is that in space years?"





	count my time in dog years

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пересчитайте дни мои в собачьи годы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883053) by [timmy_failure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmy_failure/pseuds/timmy_failure)



> this is the real age discourse you guys. 
> 
> anyway, this is legit bad and i'm only posting this because it was either that or delete it and save my soul. if you thought i wrote good fic you were wrong and this is literally the dumbest. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

"I remember my first Trial," Kolivan says.

A round of cheers goes up from the other Blades seated at the table, like they've heard this a hundred times and are ready to hear it at least a dozen more. They've been drinking—they've _all_ been drinking. Lance, Hunk, and Pidge are riveted, but Pidge is the only one still clear eyed even though she's been keeping up with the other two and that's—terrifying. Shiro's lax and handsy beside Keith, one hand resting high on Keith's leg under the table, like he owns it. Even the Princess is flushed.

Keith, unfortunately, is stone cold sober, partially because it seems like someone should be, and partially (mostly) because whatever they're drinking is _foul_ —beyond all reason and measure, like liquorice melted into that disgusting canned spaghetti he lived off for a year in the desert, purely out of desperation. But Kolivan offered, and the Paladins bit, like fresh Garrison recruits offered their first leave day, and Keith's not sure he can trust them anymore knowing what he knows about their ability to completely suspend their sense of taste.

Even _Hunk_ —it's not ok. It's not ok.

Shiro takes another drink and Keith shoots him a disgusted look. Shiro grins and moves his hand higher on Keith's leg. Keith puts his head in his hands.

"My first Trial..." Kolivan shakes his head, smiles wistfully.

"You only had one Trial!" someone shouts from the back of the room.

Kolivan shoots him a glare. "My first—and _only_ Trial—thank you. It was a fearsome battle." He raises his hands, gestures across the room. "Ten waves of ten Blades I fought—"

Another Blade jeers at him, "Yeah, because it took you that long to figure out you were supposed to go through the floor. By the end of it they were practically begging you!"

This sends the room into hysterics. Even Coran loses it—and Kolivan shoots him a betrayed look, because they’d been working up to a solid long-suffering-elders bond of brothers thing all evening.

Keith feels a clawed hand on his shoulder. "Keith got it on his eighth round," the Blade behind him says, and there's a chorus of oohs and ahhs—most of them are sincere, and even the Paladins look a little impressed. Keith feels the hand on his leg tighten imperceptibly.

"Yes, well." Kolivan sniffs. "I was young at the time, no more than seventy." That gets him some credit, and there's a round of sympathetic murmurs, which—what?

Keith shoots a startled look around the room, reminded how little he knows about what might be literally half of his genetic make up. Sure, Zarkon is ten thousand years old, but that's not—that's not normal right? At all?

Hunk comes through for him.

"Pffff." He slams his glass on the table. "Seventy? Keith’s, like, what—eighteen? Sounds to me like he's got you beat."

He looks around, but this time no one is oohing or ahhing.

Every eye in the room is on Keith, and the Blades are dead quiet and dead still for the first time in hours. "Right? Guys?" Hunk shoots Keith a confused look, like he thinks Keith has a psychic connection with other Galra or something. He doesn't.

Kolivan gives a helpless little sound. "He’s _eighteen_? Eighteen— _what_?"

Hunk quirks an eyebrow. "Years...? Oh, wait," he hits Lance's shoulder. "What is that in space years?"

They both start counting off on their fingers and whispering between themselves for a long, long, painful minute, Pidge watching with intense amusement, before they come to some kind of agreement. Lance raises his head. "It's about—oh, wait, Coran, how many quintants are in a year?"

Keith buries his head back in his hands and tries to remember why he likes them, why he's here and not in bed, or in the pool, or in the training room letting a drone beat him into the floor. The hand on his leg is moving in what's probably supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it's failing, spectacularly. He's getting that sense of foreboding that always precedes something ridiculous—like the moments before he had to ride a space cow to escape a space mall cop.

Lance stands up and shouts, "It's sixteen space years! So ha!"

He points a finger at Kolivan like he's really shown him something by being able to do basic math. Pidge shakes her head, so evidently that's not even close to correct anyway. Keith would be thrilled to have Lance be wrong _and_ actually standing up for him at any other time, in any other place, but not here, because Kolivan—

Kolivan looks at Keith, puts his hand to his mouth, and _shrieks_.

It’s not a sound humans are capable of making, and if all Galra can sound like that, it’s a wonder they don’t just use that instead of guns. It would be more effective, by several orders of magnitude. The hair on the back of Keith’s neck rises, and Shiro tenses beside him.

"Wait. What?" Hunk darts a nervous look at Keith, and then, to the rest of the Blades, who are all fixated on Keith now. One of them looks like he's going to be ill. Another actually turns and braces himself against the wall. Kolivan still has a hand over his mouth, and the Blade closest to him puts a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Keith hears the Galra standing behind him move on his feet, and he can't see what Shiro can, but Shiro slowly, deftly removes his hand from Keith's leg.

There’s a subtle shifting of mood as the factions start to reassert themselves, the Paladins on one side, the Galra on the other, and Keith isn’t sure where he stands in this, but—

"Not that this is great, but can someone explain what's going on?" Pidge, the voice of reason, the voice of sanity.

Kolivan spins toward her. “Explain?” He gestures at Keith with both hands. “Explain why you’re letting a—a child fight!”

“A _child_?” Allura laughs. “Keith is not a—child.”

One of the Blades steps forward, shaking his head. "Galra do not reach their majority until they are at fifty years of age. This is untenable—had we known, we would never have allied with you.”

Fifty. Fifty years old. But—

“But Keith isn’t even full Galra,” Hunk says. Bless Hunk, a thousand times over.

Kolivan turns to him, eyes hard. “It doesn’t matter. Galra blood runs true, even in half-bloods.”

Lance lets out a strangled sound, and Shiro darts Keith a worried glance, like he’s actually believing this and—ok, that’s far enough by several leaps and bounds.

Keith laughs, disbelieving. “You’re all joking, right? I’m not a—“

“ _Child_!” crows Lance. “Aww, Keith, you’re a _baby_. This explains so much—“

The Blade closest to him—he’s massive, even by Galra standards—slams his fist on the table, knocking Lance’s glass over with the force of the blow. Lance leaps back, but the Blade follows, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and dragging him in close.

“You will not insult a child in my presence, Paladin,” he says, deadly soft.

Lance nods, frantic, and shoots Hunk a panicked look.

“ _Whaaaaat_.” Hunk whispers. He stands and raises his hands in a let’s all calm down motion, leaning across the table to Keith. A few of the Blades tense and put a hand on their sheathed weapons.

“Uh, hey buddy, are they right?” Hunk whispers behind his hand.

Keith groans, “No!” But everyone is giving at him with the same lost look, and Shiro is sitting up, staring at Keith like he’s seeing him for the first time. Keith stands up. “I lived in the desert on my own for a year—I’ve been to college. I know how to fix a _generator_! I’m not a—child.”

The Blade that Shiro had been eyeing turns to Keith, putting his hands on Keith’s shoulders. “You may believe that,” he says gently, “but the trauma you’ve been through does not—“

“The only trauma I’m going through is this conversation.”

The Blade shakes his head, and tuts, pulling him in for a hug that he’s too shocked to resist.

“I let him go into Zarkon’s ship on his own,” Kolivan moans on the other side of the room, and it sets off a chorus.

“I kicked him in the chest,” someone wails.

“I punched him in the face—twice!”

The Blade that had been threatening Lance slams his huge fist on the table again, and then uncurls it slowly, staring into his palm. “I almost broke his arm.”

The Galra closest to Keith start crowding around him and patting at him like they’re checking for injuries. Keith stares at the wall over their heads, trying to conjure patience from the abyss. _I could be sleeping right now. I could be anywhere else._ He looks at Shiro, pleading, but Shiro is backed up against the wall like there’s no amount of love that could convince him to get in the middle of that, and—great. He's still blinking his way through a drunken existential crisis.

There's nothing—nothing, Keith realizes, less fun than being the only sober person in a room.

“Shiro—“

Kolivan cuts him off. “We will take him back with us to the headquarters. You should find someone else to pilot the red lion,” he says to Allura, like that's that and his is the last word on the matter. Keith holds out his hands to them, beseeching, but Allura and Coran share a look, like this is a real decision that really needs to be made—

Nope. No. Not happening.

Keith pries the hands off his shoulder where the Blades are trying to get a good look at the scar over the muscle there and ducks under their arms. His knife’s still on his belt—he pulls it out and lets it transform, dancing back toward the door as he keeps it trained on—everyone.

“No one is taking me anywhere. I’m going to bed, and in the morning—” He points the blade to each of the Paladins, and then Coran and Allura, too, for good measure. “ _Fix this_.”

And then he runs.

 

-

 

He wakes up still dressed, with the knife tucked against his chest like a security blanket, chaos raging outside his door.

Before going to sleep, he’d pushed the cabinet—which was only a cabinet in theory, none of them have figured out how to actually open one yet—in front of the door, as a precautionary measure, so he’d at least hear if someone tried to get in and ended up tripping over it.

He’d briefly contemplated the the knife and the panel by the door and whether or not it was worth it to lock himself in with some peace and quiet, but thought better of it.

There’s the muffled sound of a fight beyond the door. Something slams into it, hard, and Keith flinches back at the metallic _shing_ of a blade against metal. He steps closer, but not close enough to activate the auto open, trying to decide if there’s a chance it’s actually a dangerous situation and not something ridiculous.

The sound of Shiro’s arm powering up is muffled, but unmistakable.

Keith let’s the door open, and peers over the cabinet, just as a Shiro goes flying into the wall next to Keith’s head. That’s all it takes—he leaps out the door and stands over Shiro, sword already in hand. “Shiro? You ok?”

There’s a groan.

Keith wheels around. Kolivan and two other Blades are standing in the hallway, one of them clutching his arm where Shiro got in a good hit. “What did you do to him?”

Kolivan huffs. "He was attempting to enter your room."

“He’s allowed in my room.”

Kolivan opens his mouth, shoots the other blades a confused look. One shrugs. “No, he’s not.”

Keith crosses his arms. “Why not?”

“It's—improper.”

Lance chooses that moment to open his door. He looks like a wreck, with massive bags under his eyes and lank hair. Keith wonders how late everyone got to bed last night and has a moment of sympathy, but then Lance takes one look at the Situation in the hallway and—ugh.

He puts a hand over his mouth, to stifle a chuckle. It almost manages to make him look like he’s concerned. “Keith... Were you letting boys in your room?” he tuts.

Keith glares at him. “This isn’t funny.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “I mean, yeah, it is, but if you’re going to be a—“

One of the Blades turns on him. “Do not finish that sentence,” he says, leveling his sword on Lance, who takes one look at it and steps right back into his room, the doors sliding shut behind him.

Getting out of bed is almost worth it, just for that.

 

-

 

"We could leave," he says, once he's got Shiro secured in his room and a cool cloth over the bruise forming on his cheek. "I'll take Red and you take Black, and—we can come back if they need us."

There's something viscerally appealing about the idea, one of those things he didn't know he wanted until he said it out loud, and god—he wants it.

He looks up, and Shiro is smiling at him. It's that sweet-soft look that catches his breath every time, because there's something resigned in it, that Keith can't interpret.

"Keith."

He looks away, because he knows that tone. It's the last thing he needs right now. "I don't want to deal with this. This is—dumb," he tries, because that's exactly what it is and it can't possibly be more than that.

"But maybe he's... not wrong?" Shiro ventures.

Keith is off the bed before he realizes why. It hurts, that something this dumb actually has the ability to come between them. "You're joking, right."

But he isn't. Shiro won't meet his eyes now. "I'm just saying, maybe—"

Of course. Great. His best friend and long term boyfriend thinks he's a child. Fantastic. He's grabs his jacket off the hook on the wall and punches the door override, because he can't stay in this room and feel like this right now. Shiro calls after him, but he doesn't pause. He wants to hit something, and there's an entire deck made just for that.

He bee-lines for it—or tries to, though the three Blades who have evidently self-assigned themselves as his private guard make it a challenge in every way possible and a few that shouldn't be.

“You’re not going to wear a helmet?” one asks once they get there, as he watches Keith tie back his hair.

Keith closes his eyes. “No.”

The Blades share a look. “Your brain is still developing, it’s essential that you take measures—“

“I’m not wearing a helmet. I’m not wearing knee pads, or elbow guards or—anything. It’s not happening. This is it.” He motions to his own body, because he owns exactly two sets of clothing at this point; one is his Paladin armor, and one is _this_. Black pants that Lance still isn’t over calling jeggings, and a pilfered standard-issue slate grey Garrison t-shirt.

One of the Blades mutters _elbow guards_ to himself, like he wasn’t aware until this moment that elbows were a thing that needed guarding. Keith takes a moment to wonder if Galra even have funny bones, but shakes it off.

They might all be hungover, but he isn’t, and he’s going to fight a drone until _patience yields focus_ is a thing again.

“Are you sure, not even a—“

Keith ignores him. “Start training level three.”

“No!” the one that couldn’t figure out what elbows were yells—actually _yells_ , like lives are on the line. “End training sequence. Three? That's unsafe—“

Keith doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. “Start training level four,” he says to be arbitrary, ignoring the Blade's offended gasp. He’s good up to level five.

But the Blade doesn’t back down. “End training sequence.”

Keith narrows his eyes on the faceless mask. “Start training level _five_.”

The Blade gasps again. “End training sequence!”

The training deck gives a strangled beep.

Keith’s right in his face now—as close as he can get, when they’re a foot or more distant in height. They stare each other down for a long second. Keith opens his mouth—

“Don’t,” the Blade says, softly.

Keith sneers at him.

“Do _not_ —“

“Start training level six,” Keith says.

The Blade grabs him by the back of his shirt— _the scruff_ , his mind supplies, not helpfully—and tosses him over one shoulder. It's such a shock, he doesn't immediately fight it. The Blade walks out of the training deck, the other two in tow, and Keith is trying decide what course of action will preserve the most dignity when he realizes where they're going.

Keith tries kicking, and then cajoling, and—he's not above begging. “Please, _please_ just put me down. I'll walk, I promise. Please.”

He's totally unmoved, and then it’s too late.

Keith can only see the floor and the two Blades bringing up the rear guard, but he hears the gasps as they enter the dining room. The Blade grabs him by the back of his shirt, like he’s nothing, like he really is a child, and sets him down in a chair with an implied threat to stay there or be manhandled right back into it.

The Paladins are staring at him with varying degrees of humor and horror. Pidge and Hunk have the same bags under their eyes, and Lance is looking at him with something like pity.

He can't even look at Shiro.

Someone shoves a bowl of food goo under his nose and puts a spoon in his hand, and it’s over. His life is over. He lays his cheek on the table and closes his eyes.

“You need to eat,” Kolivan says. “You're much too small.”

Keith doesn’t move. Maybe if he falls asleep here, maybe if stays still enough long enough, he’ll wake up in bed, with a heavy arm over his waist, or maybe back in that desert shack—

Shiro breaks him out of his fugue state with a quiet, “Keith.“

But he still can't meet his gaze.

“Do not talk to him,” Kolivan frowns. “I can't believe you would attempt to enter the room of a mere boy."

Lance snorts and mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?" Kolivan asks in a pitch-perfect mom voice. It has a noticeable effect on the other Paladins, and Keith didn't grow up with that, but maybe an angry mother is a universal source of terror.

Lance darts a glance around, eyebrows all feigned innocence. "Nothing."

Kolivan pins him with a dead glare. "I want to know what you said."

Lance pushes his plate away and makes like he's going to get up and leave, but the Blade behind him pushes him back into his seat with both hands on his shoulders. Suddenly it's an interrogation, and maybe Keith can use this to escape, grab Red, wait for Shiro to get it together and catch up—

"I just said... I mean, that ship has kind of sailed, right?" He gives a little giggle, one that Pidge and Hunk mimic nervously, compulsively.

"What ship?"

Lance closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again he's looking at Keith apologetically.

No—

"The part where Shiro can't go in Keith's room. Sorry, buddy, the walls are pretty thin and it's really—" he pushes a hand through his hair, "—it's been a lot."

No one says a word, but every eye in the room moves to Keith, and then slowly to Shiro, and back again.

"Oh fuck," says Pidge.

Lance shoves off the hand on his shoulder and stands. "No, ok—you guys? I'm the only one in that hallway and I can't deal with it anymore. I've heard _so much_."

Shiro sighs and puts his face in his robotic hand, delicately. "Lance..."

"No! Don't _Lance_ me. This is ridiculous! This is—" He cuts himself putting his hands in his hair, and he actually looks like he's going to have a breakdown about Keith and Shiro's love life in the kitchen, in front of four Paladins and a dozen trained Galra insurgents.

He feels a little pang of sympathy, but it's squashed by an absolute, all-encompassing mortification as the last two months of his life— _their_ life, their _very private_ life—runs through his mind.

Kolivan is late to the party. "What? You—" He darts his gaze between Keith and Shiro, and he's shaking. "You mean to say that—"

"They _fucked_!" Lance moans, and buries his head in his hands. "They fucked on the wall! And in the bathroom—"

Kolivan folds his arms.

"—and on the training deck, I saw _everything_ —"

"Really? In front of the drones?" Pidge actually looks upset about it.

"—and! And! On that counter _right there_." Lance throws an arm out toward the offending area. The three Blades leaning against it lurch away.

"We cleaned it afterward!" Keith says before he can think better of it, but it's not like he can blush any harder than he already is, and it's not like today can get any worse. Or maybe it can, he realizes with horror. Maybe this is one of those days that drags you into the pit and then throws a shovel in after you and tells you to start digging.

The look Hunk gives him could curdle fresh milk. "The counter, man? The counter where I _cook_? That's a sacred space!"

Shiro takes a deep breath and puts both hands flat on the table. "Keith and I are in an adult relationship, and I'm sorry if that offends you—"

"The counter!" Lance wails. "I eat in here! We _all_ eat in here!"

Shiro has the good grace to look mildly embarrassed, but his gaze is still hard. "Ok, maybe we got a little carried away, but—wait, how do you know?" His gaze narrows on Lance. "Were you _watching_ us?"

Lance clams up real fast at that. "Not on purpose—"

Oh, hell no. "It was three in the morning!" Keith says.

He's blushing. Lance is _blushing_. Keith has the irrational urge to pull his jacket closed across his chest, but it's still up on the training deck and Lance has been watching them and listening to them for weeks.

This is it, this is the worst day of his life.

Kolivan is looking between the three of them, mouth open. "This can't continue," he says to Keith. "You'll be coming with us, immediately."

The Galra behind him, the one that carried him into the room already has a hand on Keith's, like he's ready to carry him out again if he has to. But this time Keith is ready, and he's not going without a fight. He slips out of the grip, but Kolivan moves to stand in front of the door, an impassable wall.

Lance frowns. "Wait, you're taking him? _Why_?"

"He can't be in a relationship with an adult. It's improper." He glares at Shiro, but Shiro—

Shiro is looking down at the table, still and quiet, and it's the same expression Keith has seen him wear before every hard decision he's ever made. He can't actually be considering this, not after everything they've been through—

"I'm not an adult," Shiro says without looking up. "I'm—six years old."

What.

"Wait—what?" Lance asks, shaking his head like there's something in his ears and he's misheard—which, yeah. Keith's right there.

It's so far from what he expected to come out of Shiro's mouth he has to replay it a few times. Is this Shiro lying? Is this the best he could come up with? He's narrows his eyes, but Shiro is still looking at the table. He's focused on it, blinking,

He takes a deep, audible breath. "I was born on a leap year."

No way. No _way_. The mood in the room flips. The Galra are confused, but Pidge, Lance, and Hunk are bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and rapt. Keith still can't quite process it, but Lance spares him having to ask.

"Buddy, are you serious? Because if you're not, I need to know _right now_ —"

Shiro closes his eyes, steeling himself. "Yes, I was born on a leap day. I'm six years old."

Lance stands up, and no one stops him this time. His shoulders are already shaking, like a low rumble building up and, wow. They're never going to let Shiro live this down, ever. This is the rest of Shiro's life now.

"Is this why you never told me your birthday?" Keith asks.

Shiro nods, and meets his gaze, a little sheepish. It's an apology, he realizes—which is ridiculous. He'd be just as happy headed toward some backwater planet in their lions, free and clear. Happier, even.

Kolivan's eyebrows look like they're trying to launch themselves into orbit. He turns to the Blade beside him, one of Keith's erstwhile bodyguards, who shrugs and gives a little half nod, like _sure, why not._ He repeats the process with a few other Galra, and that's it. That's all it takes. All of Shiro's dignity and a shrug.

"Ok," he says, nodding at Keith and Shiro. "Fine. I give up. Be happy together."

"...Fine?" Keith frowns.

Kolivan gives him a tight smile. "Yes. But," he jerks his head at Lance, "if this one is inappropriate with you again, tell us."

"Hey, what the hell?" Lance asks. "I didn't watch on purpose!"

And that's how Keith gains several dozen bodyguards, Shiro's birthday, and the ability to ruin Lance's life with a few carefully chosen words, at the small price of all of his dignity, and most of Shiro's.

All said and done? It's a wash.

**Author's Note:**

> [insp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwpRJhvxQKU). 
> 
> Come send me hate on [tumblr](http://arahir.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/arahir)!


End file.
